By: Dana
Summary: What Merry wonders about, beyond the moon and stars above.
Characters: Merry, Pippin
Pairings: Merry/Pippin
Rating: G
Warnings: Slash
Author's Notes: Um, if there can be PWP and AWP, then this must be FWP - fluff without plot. Pre-quest.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Merry watches the stars wheel overhead; a great game of tag in the heavens above. He lies flat in the slick grass, the taste of fresh rain cool and heavy in the air. He can't help but wonder as he watches, a thought that rests at the back of the mind, between the stars and the Moon, who'll be the one who wins.

The night is heavy and he reminds himself to breathe, tasting the coolness of the air, letting it wash over him like a memory of long ago; his eyes close and he sinks deep into his thoughts, hearing only distantly the sound of music from the Hall, the presence of late night revelers and their mirth that goes undimmed. It'll be midnight soon, he guesses, or perhaps it's closer to dawn. He really can't tell, and he wonders if he even cares, not when the weight of the world is pressing him down, dragging him down into the ground.

"Merry?"

That voice, Pippin's voice, is nothing more than a whisper, distant as a summer's breeze, a promise of warmth to come; its Springtime now and the Shire is still waking up from the depth of Winter's embrace. Merry only motions for Pippin to sit beside him; he hears the sound of Pippin coming close, and pictures the frown on his cousin's face. Merry doesn't open his eyes, simply listening to the sound of silence; who would have ever been able to guess that the sound of silence was the sound of Pippin's breath.

"Laying out in the cold and the wet, a perfect way to catch your death of a cold," Pippin says, irritation sharp like a burr in his voice, and he's closer now, not so far away, more like something solid and less of a run away dream.

"You're starting to sound like your Mum," Merry replies.

The frown again, Merry guesses, and only a short pause and gathering of breath. "Well, it's better than acting like the daftest of the Brandybucks." A pause and Pippin clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "And you say that we Tooks are fools. At least we won't be the ones who waste away, lost to our thoughts."

It's Pippin's way of saying he thinks too much. "Oh, but we all know that you Tooks don't think at all," Merry replies lazily, laughter ringing unheard in his words.

"You're being quite stubborn," Pippin says with a sigh.

"Well, I learned from the best," Merry replies, lip twitching.

"So, who's this hobbit who happens to be the best?" Pippin demands.

Merry grins and opens his eyes slowly. Pippin is kneeling beside him know, he sees, a frustrated look on his face; the light down from the Hall shines yellow behind Pippin's curls, giving him the illusion of a crown. That something he wanted to say is forgotten in a breath and a smile; all he can do is simply stare.

"Merry?" Pippin frowns, concern flooding his voice. "Are you feeling well, cousin?" He laughs, then, rubbing at his mouth. "Or do I have something between my teeth?"

"I'm fine," Merry replies, closing his eyes against Pippin's glare. "And so are you."

"Oh, Merry. It's your birthday - your thirty-third, I might add, and here you are, lying in the grass. It's cold and wet and it's not comfortable at all. You should be celebrating. As it is, you've left your guests inside so they've got to do the celebrating on their own. And you're lying here in the grass and the cold and you want me to believe that you're fine. And I just don't believe you."

That last is softer than the rest, a torrent of emotion contained in six simple words. Merry laughs, knows he's only adding fuel to the fire, and gives no reply.

"Why won't you tell me what the problem is? It's your birthday." And he says that like it's supposed to mean something - because Merry just doesn't feel that it does. It's only another day, after all. There's nothing more special about this one than the day before, or the day that's yet to come.

At the sound of Merry's silence, the frown is liquid in Pippin's voice, the annoyance is stretched thin; the darkness would blot out the brightness of his eyes. You're not supposed to be so sad, and Merry is surprised he hears at all. It's like a whisper, something gone unsaid. With that, that sorrow that reminds Merry of his own heavy thoughts, he opens his eyes.

"Lay with me a bit," Merry laughs again, whispers, a look that Pippin can't fathom resting on his cousin's face, a mourning smile that seems to twist his lips. His eyes are very deep and dark and Pippin feels like he could fall into Merry, and lose himself forever. "Just for a while."

Pippin doesn't know what to say and squeezes Merry's hand until his fingers begin to numb. He laughs then, smiling, and eases down next to Merry, to lie at his side. Wet grass tickles bare patches of skin, cool against his cheek. "Very well then," he says lightly. "We'll catch our deaths together."

Merry can't help but smile, lying in the cool embrace of the earth. Pippin shifts just slightly and his head rests against Merry's shoulder, and the moment expands out to cover the rest of forever - Brandy Hall and its light and laughter, the Brandywine running like a river of black glass in the night, the forests rising up into the air. The night air is living and breathing and everything, all of it, comes back to him, to them, under the stars.

"Do you know the constellations, Pip?" Merry asks and his breath is warm against Pippin's skin. Pippin's can't help but hide his surprise; he'd almost begun to believe his cousin was ice to the core.

"Enough of them, Merry," Pippin replies, and he can't help but shiver; Merry should know. If it wasn't for Merry, and if it wasn't for Frodo, then he wouldn't know the stars at all. Merry's arm slides under Pippin's neck, pillowing, wrapping round his shoulder. Pippin's voice is wry now, weary. "But I can't remember them all."

"Remember the ones you can, then. For me."

There's that shiver again and Pippin closes his eyes for a long moment, opening them with a steady breath. He lifts his arm up, tilting his head against Merry as one finger points to a cluster that hangs low in the sky. He wonders if Merry watches him, he wonders if Merry even cares. Merry wonders that too, a soft echo of nothing that stirs in warmth of Pippin's breath; perhaps he simply wants to hear his cousin's voice.

"That," Pippin says, "and that, to that," and he traces the path with his finger, "is the Crown. And then we have the Mirror, that group of seven stars. Right here, and here." Pippin's voice is like a lullaby, soft like a whisper, and Merry finds himself falling under. The Moon sinks into the West, the stars begin to dim. In his mind, Pippin's voice continues. The Cat, and the Cradle, the Shield and the Bow.

Tangled in Merry's embrace, Pippin sleeps, too, and when he wakes in the morning, he feels stiff and sore but thoroughly rested. The morning air is rich and sweet and damp, dew clinging t "Oh, Merry," he groans, one leg thrown over his own. He's the pillow now, Merry's head tucked against his chest, arms wrapped around. "Merry, dear, you're crushing the life out of me."

Merry stirs and Pippin feels a wash of warm breath against his lips as Merry's head rises. His eyes are only half-lidded, drowsy and sweet. Merry smiles and tangles grass-stained fingers in Pippin's curls. "Oh, Pip," he says, and Pippin smiles. "Mmm." He leans close, eyes closed again, breathing in. "Oh, you smell like rain," he whispers, and Pippin freezes, the extremes of cool lips and warm breath tangling against his mouth. He could be irritated again, trapped as he is, but he forgets to feel that, forgets to feel anything except Merry, lying as he is against Pippin.

"Mer -" he whispers, but there's nothing more, silence that swallows; Merry's mouth fits just right against Pippin's, a thrill that's like shock charging through Pippin's form, sweet and wet and hot and cold all at the same time. Pippin groans and the kiss ends before it's even truly begun, breath is breathed and then Merry's lips fall against his again. Merry is the one who moans, fingers tangled in Pippin's hair, tongue tangling with Pippin's in the place where their mouths meet in between.

"Merry," Pippin whispered, the taste still clinging to his lips, Merry's head tucked against his shoulder. "Merry, Merry," and he's too stunned to say anything else.

Merry lifts his head slowly, eyes impossibly dark in the early morning light; his smile is faint, painted on. Fingers curve against Pippin's cheek, leaving cool wet streaks against his skin. "You taste like it, too."

And Merry wonders, as Pippin smiles, not as uncertain as he'd been a breath before, who had won the night before, the Moon or had it been the stars.